Indelible
by M. D. Jensen
Summary: Sixteen year old Rory Callund has been having strange dreams: a magic box, a girl named Amy, and an old old man. Post Angels Take Manhattan.


Disclaimer: Doctor Who is property of the BBC. All songs quotes are property of Dusty Springfield; in order, they are are "Time and Time Again" and "Losing You".

Summary: Sixteen year old Rory Callund has been having strange dreams: a magic box, a girl named Amy, and an old old man. Post _Angels Take Manhattan_.

_Indelible_

_Chapter One_

The first time he has the dream, Rory Calland isn't sure what to think. The dream is all in English, and though he supposes he'd be considered fluent, he's never dreamed in anything but Norwegian before.

But let alone the language. There's a man in the dream, an old old man, who has two hearts and a young man's face. And when he looks at Rory, time freezes. Rory knows him- he doesn't know how that's possible, but he's familiar like a face out of childhood, and when he apologizes about the angels, it's like something rises up in Rory's gut that's been waiting there all his life.

He wakes up in the morning half-hungover. For a minute or two, he lies breathless in bed with a creeping feeling like he listened to one to many ghost stories.

Then his mother's voice cuts through the house, announcing breakfast, and all is forgotten.

* * *

The second time he has the dream, it's a few weeks later; Rory sits up in bed, moonlight dim on the floorboards, and tries to calm his breathing. It's not a nightmare. He isn't scared- more troubled than anything, like there's an important question he can't answer. But he's not sure what's being asked.

This time, the old old man takes Rory's hand. His skin is cold, and rough; his fingers graceful and persistent. His laugh is childish.

"How's Amy?" he asks, and Rory in the dream says in a perfect British accent that Amy is great, is getting coffee, will be back in a minute.

He wakes with the name stuck in his head like a song. _Amy Amy Amy_, his mind chants, while Rory watches the moonlight moving slowly.

* * *

The fifth time he has the dream, Rory begins to suspect he's going insane. The old old man has a name now, in a way; he calls himself the Doctor like that's something that should just be accepted.

Rory finds his voice this time- his own voice- and asks the Doctor how old he is. The Doctor smiles. "Not as old as you, Centurion," he admits, and Rory wakes up in tears.

He can hardly stay awake in school. It doesn't help that they're watching a film, some sort of history of Europe documentary. Rory props his chin on his fist and trusts his bangs to hide his closing eyes.

Too tense to actually sleep, Rory drifts. Half of his mind is walking slowly through his dreams, bit by bit; half of his mind is begrudgingly listening to a deep voice drone on about the Roman empire. More voices join in, apparently reenacting a scene of some sort. Men are fighting about military strategies. Rory really could not care less.

Something makes hard contact with the leg of his desk, and the vibrations startle Rory into opening his eyes. Gabe is staring at him with a frown. _Stay awake_, he mouths, and Rory sighs and nods. They have an essay due in less than a week. Funny how things like the real world begin to slip one's mind.

He forces himself to stare at the screen, though there's not much there to hold his interest. The men are still arguing, in bad period dress, bright yellow subtitles at the bottom even though the actors are perfectly understandable, if afflicted with slightly strange accents. Even with his eyes open, Rory daydreams.

When the movie ends, the teacher calls for questions. Finally deciding he should make at least a bit of effort, Rory takes up his pencil and waits to record the answers. _What historical figures were portrayed in the reenactments? How does this scene connect to the previous unit?_

When Ana raises her hand and asks what language the actors were were speaking, Mr. Fiske smiles and says, "anybody? A response?" And then, of course: "Rory?"

Rory sits up a bit straighter, thankful that at least his eyes are open. "Eh, sorry," he stammers. "Do you mean what language they were, you know, supposed to be speaking? Or that they, eh, were speaking?"

"What language were they speaking, Rory?" Mr. Fiske asks in his tired teacher voice.

"Well, Norwegian, yeah? But I think- they were supposed to be speaking Latin?"

"They _were_ speaking Latin, Rory. Please pay attention. I told you all that I wanted you to get a sense of the language and what its sounds were like. Now, if there are no more questions..."

Suddenly there is a pit in Rory's stomach, three stories deep.

Rory catches up with Gabe as they're leaving the room. "I've got a stupid question," he whispers.

"Okay."

"In the film- the flashback bits- were they really speaking Latin?"

Gabe stares. "Eh- yes? I guess?"

"That wasn't, like- Norwegian? Or English?"

"If you're trying to draw me into some conversation about how we can never _really_ know how Latin sounded... don't," Gabe orders, then softens. "Are you okay, mate?"

"Yeah," Rory says, and it's the first time he's ever lied about something so big.

When school is over, he makes his way back to his history classroom; Mr. Fiske is sitting at his desk, surrounded by papers and books.

Rory steps into the room tentatively. "Excuse me, Mr. Fiske?"

"Hello, Rory," his teacher replies mildly.

"Hi. Eh, first off I wanted to apologize for not paying close enough attention today."

He smiles, and though that should relax Rory, it doesn't. "We all have our off days. You know I think highly of you as a student."

"Oh. Thanks. So, my second question was, can I borrow that film? So I can watch it at home?"

Obviously this was the right way of handling it, because Mr. Fiske is smiling as he hands the DVD over.

Rory runs home, dodging his mom, and sticks the disk into his computer without even taking off his backpack. He fast-forwards until he sees subtitles on the thumbnails.

His heart is beating. His stomach is churning. He knows what's going on, at some near-instinctual level, but this is about to prove it. This is about to change everything.

Rory hits play.

The men are back, discussing strategy. And they are, without question, speaking a foreign language.

Rory covers the subtitles with one hand. He can still follow every word perfectly. He takes his hand away, reads along with the words, confirming it.

Rory closes the film, pulls up his translation software, and sets the languages to Latin and Norwegian. With trembling hands, he brings his computer closer. His mouth forms harsh, archaic sounds; meanwhile the computer echoes his words in his mother tongue, confirming what he already knows: his speech is perfect- flawless.

_Hello, my name is Rory Callund,_ the program spits back at him. _I'm sixteen years old. My parents are Edvard and Alfa Callund. It's Thursday, February 27, 2031. I've got a dog named Custard and my best mate's name is Gabriel Ohlsen and I... I... am losing my mind._

Rory sits.

He could (sort of) handle the idea that his subconscious speaks completely colloquial, natively accented English- but _this_...

Latin.

He speaks Latin.

* * *

Rory has had the dream every night for a month now. And he has seen things- fantastic things- waterfalls and deserts and moons and jungles, and kings and queens and dinosaurs and robots. He knows the Doctor now, like a friend. He knows his ship. He knows the names Amy, and River, and Melody, and Brian, though he doesn't know enough to understand why they all break his heart.

He isn't eating. His grades are down. And though notice is being taken, it's nothing invasive; the conversations typically go a bit like this:

_Rory/son/mate, what's been wrong lately?_

_Oh, nothing really. Haven't been sleeping well._

_Anything you want to talk about?_

_No._

Gabe thinks he's letting his course load get to him. His mum thinks he's in love. His dad thinks it's a _growing boy_ thing and that it will sort itself out with time, because when it comes down to it, Rory's done the opposite of crying wolf all his life; he's always been so perfectly _ordinary_ and _stable_ that nobody believes when something is finally wrong.

That makes it a bit easier to go mad.

He's known for a few weeks that he'll have to try. He'll have to try and find the Doctor, because failing will be the only chance he has of going back to normal. Rory's not sure when his belief became so definite- probably shortly after the realization that he speaks a bloody _dead language_- but two things are certainly true.

The first is that Rory believes in the Doctor.

The second is that he'd rather be proven wrong, thanks.

The idea of graffiti comes to him as April begins; the springtime warmth is slow in coming this year, and Rory often finds himself the only soul out walking the streets.

So Rory paints the town. In any color, on any surface: yellow on brick buildings, green on broken sidewalks, white on fresh asphalt. Orange on the overpass. Grey on the pier. Doctor, Doctor, Doctor. Doctor. Doctor. The paint seeps into cracks and nooks and takes hold, indelible. He's never caught, and he never crosses paths with anyone else who paints, though there are plenty of markings to be found. Rory's own simple, childish print clashes and overlaps with elaborate, artistic signatures.

Red on park benches. Black on the adjacent field of grass, because why the hell not? Some of his words are washed off or covered. Most remain.

Doctor. Doctor.

_DOCTOR._

Rory finds a small section dedicated to his work on a Stavanger-based graffiti website, a casual debate on the meaning included.

He counts the time in pairs of pants that have not yet been stained somewhere by paint. Nine. Eight. Six. Three. When his mum realizes he's doing his own laundry, it only convinces her further that he's got his eye on someone.

Then it happens.

* * *

Blue under the bridge; water lapping only a few meters away. It's become a habit now, almost an addiction: the smell of night air and paint, the ever-duller apprehension of getting caught, the ever-stronger thrill of getting away with it. He's not sure if the Doctor is coming. He's not sure what his next move should be; is he ready to go completely insane, to truly begin doing whatever it takes to merit some cosmic attention?

_DOCTOR._ All in capitals, as he sometimes prefers, and this time Rory adds something he never has before: another word.

_DOCTOR,_ the paint reads, then below it, _please._

He barely reacts to the footsteps. Let the police arrest him, let his parents find him out.

"Rory."

It's a voice from the back of his mind, a voice that should never be heard in daylight hours, even with the sun barely above the horizon.

"Rory."

Rory knows it's impossible, but as his heart begins to pound he also knows that it can't be anything else.

Rory turns.

"Rory," the old old man whispers. He's dressed as he always is, collared shirt, tweed jacket, bow tie; floppy brown hair and a thirty year old's countenance. Emotions surge across his features: shock, elation. Guilt, sorrow. Though they are dizzyingly transient, Rory identifies each one, somehow as familiar with this face as he is with his own.

"Hi," Rory mumbles, hands automatically finding his pockets. "Eh- you are- yeah. Who else would you be?"

"Who else indeed?" The words carry with them a tinge of suspicion, and Rory finds himself being scrutinized in a way he doesn't entirely appreciate. Every detail of his body is being examined, as though by a man trying to memorize his lover before a long journey. "What would you say if I said... crimson, eleven, delight?"

"Petrichor," Rory answers automatically, then sucks in a startled breath. The answer had been waiting there, as immediate as his own name, and he says the word in English even though he's not even sure he's ever learned it in any language to begin with. His nose fills with the memory of soil after rain.

He hardly has time to consider this, though, distracted by the set of arms that have become fastened around him- quite tightly at that. The love with which he's being held is nearly enough to bring tears to his eyes.

And when he's released- a full half-minute later- there are indeed tears in the eyes that stare back at him. "Hello, Rory." The voice is tremulous yet jubilant. "I'm the Doctor."

"Hello, Doctor." There is a part of Rory that is panicking, doubting- but there is a larger part that is suddenly at peace, totally accepting of what's going on. "It's, eh, good to see you."

"Same to you." He smiles crookedly. "How are you getting on? Looking a bit- green? Bit wet behind the ears?"

"Well, I'm fine, I guess." For all of his dreams, all of his wild plans, Rory has never actually considered the moment when he'll have to engage in conversation with this man. "I, eh- I'm all right."

"You are, aren't you?" the Doctor murmurs. Then his face crumples and disappears behind a hand.

Rory waits, hardly breathing.

Slowly the hand comes away and the Doctor is smiling with shaking lips, and straightening his bow tie with trembling fingers. "Sorry, _sorry_," he sighs, blinking willfully. "I'm an old, old man."

"I know." The Doctor sits right there in the dirt, and Rory settles beside him, wondering if he should sling an arm around his shoulder or put a hand on his knee or something. He doesn't. Maybe that's cold, or rude, his imaginary friend just showed up under a bridge and nearly started crying a minute later, so Rory's not going to chastise himself too badly for not knowing what to do. "You said I was older than you," he says, for want of anything better to do.

"You are." The Doctor is calmer by now.

"I'm human," Rory says; funny how automatically and completely he understands that the Doctor is not.

"You are also," the Doctor says with a fond, sad smile, "the Last Centurion of the Roman Empire."

"What does that _mean_?"

"All right, let's do it this way. Tell me what you remember- everything you remember."

"Okay," Rory says slowly. "I- I've been having dreams. Started a few months back. You're there. You ask me about someone named Amy." He pauses, unsure, and regards the Doctor.

"These are just your dreams, Rory," the Doctor says gently. "The truth, coming to you from your subconscious in the only way your conscious mind could handle. Go back. Go back to your actual memories."

Rory sighs. He closes his eyes and puts his fingers over them, in case they decide to reopen on their own. "My name is Rory Callund. I'm sixteen years old. I was born- I was born- on September 3, 1987. No! Hang on." Rory pulls his hands away to stare wide-eyed at his new companion. "I was born in 2015! January 17, 2015."

"Not originally. Would have made it hard for me to meet you in 2008- though not impossible," the Doctor adds thoughtfully. "Are you going to panic?"

"No. Why?"

"Because you look like you're panicking."

"No," Rory says, even though his heart is beating so fast he can feel the rhythm in his fingers and toes. Sweat pricks his scalp. "I was born January 17, 2015. I'm sixteen years old. I'm from Storhaug, in Stavanger. January 17, 2015, and my name is Rory Williams!"

And even as the wrong phonemes pass over his lips, Rory knows it's true. Knows he's remembered what he's properly called, from the first time around. Knows that yes, somehow, he is more than just a teenager from Stavanger, that somehow he's also the man the Doctor is telling him about.

When feeling finally comes back into his body, Rory realizes that the Doctor's arm is around him tightly. He lets it stay. "That was my name, then," he says dully.

"Rory Arthur Williams," the Doctor supplies.

"From England."

"Leadworth, to be specific."

Rory is silent for a long time, staring down the length of his legs at his scuffed-up trainers. The arm is still around him. The thumb rubs gently at his elbow as he takes a deep breath and lets his thoughts come out.

"I was born in 1987. I was a nurse, yeah? My dad- he liked to garden. My mum liked Dusty Springfield." Now Rory is the one crying; tears drip off his nose and chin, and he does nothing to stop them. "She died, didn't she?"

"When you were sixteen. For the first time." The Doctor's voice is gentle.

"My parents names are Edvard and Alfa," Rory pleads. "My dad hates anything to do with the outdoors, and I've never even heard of Dusty Springfield. My mum's fine. They're both fine."

"I know." The arm around him tightens, and Rory gets the feeling he's being comforted more than actually validated.

"Why is this happening now?"

"Never a good answer for what sets the remembering off. Can't be sure why it's happening now. But it's _happening_ because it's got to."

Rory sniffs hard and tries to stop crying; it works, mostly, and he runs the hem of his sleeve over the wetness on his face. "I speak Latin," he says flatly, when he feels like his voice will come out evenly.

"Of course you do. I told you, you were Roman."

"I'm Norwegian," Rory argues, though somewhere inside him this feels less true than it should.

"Love the Norwegians!" The Doctor yelps. "Great coffee. And they've got cloudberries in Norway- best name for a berry, ever, hands down."

"How can I be Roman _and_ British _and_ Norwegian? Actually, more to the point, how can I speak a language I've literally never heard?"

The Doctor smiles. His arm is no longer there, Rory realizes; instead the man is twisting his hands in his lap, like a child. "You know the answer to that, Rory. You just don't want to say it."

He's right, of course, on both counts. "I'm remembering my past lives," Rory says dully. "That- that doesn't happen to everyone, does it?"

The Doctor frowns. "Definitely not. Most people don't _have_ past lives- one shot and you're done. But the universe remembers how to make you, Rory. Every atom everywhere literally has a map of you inside it, like chromosomes in a cell. And it's not just your body, but your mind- your soul. Whenever you die, the universe senses it and brings you back. Ha! And I suppose somewhere in those instructions there's a strange instinct for your parents to name you Rory.

"Rory," the Doctor repeats with a cocky smile. "The Indelible Man."

"Basically reincarnation, then."

"Oye, why do you always have to ruin my fun?" The Doctor sticks out his lip.

"Do I?"

"Yes."

For a moment, Rory can feel the warmth of camaraderie between them- the ghost of what must have been. "But why me?"

The Doctor sighs. "That is a very excellent question, and a very long story."

"Okay, then tell me this. How did I die?" When the Doctor pauses, Rory frowns. "I know that you know. When you first saw me, you almost cried- you were thinking about my death. I have the right to know, Doctor."

"Yes you do," the man consents, leaning his head back thoughtfully. "But I'd rather tell you with a hot mug in my hand. Are you so Norwegian at the moment that we'll have to have _coffee_? I'd much prefer tea, if we're being honest."

For the first time in months, Rory feels a smile spread over his lips. "I prefer tea as well, actually."

"Ah!" The Doctor lights up like a child on his birthday. "There you are!"

* * *

"You were engaged," the Doctor begins, "to a girl named Amelia Pond." There are mugs of tea in both of their hands, and it's true that it makes this all marginally easier to hear. It does not, however, seem that it's any easier for the Doctor to say. "Amy was- an ordinary human being. But, she in the house where she grew up there was a crack in her bedroom wall. Not in the plaster, but literally in space and time. Growing up so close to this crack, it- changed Amy's mind. It changed the way she related to time, and to the universe."

Rory takes a sip from his mug. The Doctor's hands are shaking.

"You and she and I traveled together."

"In the TARDIS," Rory interrupts, and the Doctor smiles wearily.

"You remember?"

"A little. I remember your ship. I remember- we went places." Rory glances around the cafe, but no one is paying them any mind.

"Okay. Good. So once, when the three of us were- traveling- a soldier pointed a gun at me. And you pushed me aside. Got shot instead. I don't know if I've ever thanked you, by the way, but- thank you."

"Oh. You're welcome," Rory replied automatically, his head beginning to ache.

"You were lost," the Doctor continues. His mouth bows in a little, but his voice remains steady. "Instead of dying, you disappeared from space and time. Fell into that same crack I mentioned. And Amy- she didn't remember you consciously. But somewhere deep inside, she did. This is the summary version, you understand," the Doctor adds suddenly, and Rory nods, fully speechless by now.

"Amy's mind," the Doctor continues, "was used in a plot against me. In an attempt to set a convincing trap. Her memories were drawn upon, and recreated in living plastic. From her head, my enemies constructed a Roman legion. History buff, Amy," he remarks slyly. "But, something they didn't plan happened as well. One of the soldiers was you."

Snapshots go off like fireworks behind Rory's eyes as the Doctor is speaking. He sees the Roman countryside. He sees flashes of red capes and glints of bronze armor; swords in hands, and feet all stepping in strict formation.

"A proper Roman," he whispers.

"You were!" The Doctor seems pleased with these words. "You were no longer just Rory Williams then. You had all of his memories, but you had a Roman's as well. Doesn't matter you were plastic! Well, it does a bit, I suppose. I'm getting there.

"Amy was shot. She was dying. Well. She died, to be perfectly honest. The only thing we could do was to put her in the prison they'd designed for me, hook her up to that life support- it was a good prison, so good it kept you alive, you see. And wait for her to be born, in 1989. Then the Pandorica, the prison, could heal her from a sample of her DNA."

The Doctor pauses now. He scans Rory up and down, side to side, as though waiting for fear or disbelief, but Rory feels next to nothing. Just keeps seeing split-second images, of lights in the sky, of carving on a stone box.

"Any bells ringing in there?" the Doctor says at last.

"Bits, yeah. Pictures." Rory's his tea is gone, and he is beginning to feel restless enclosed in the little shop.

"You always did take things a bit on the calm side."

"Did I?" Rory responds, for lack of anything better to say. He breathes in deeply. "Did we save Amy?"

The Doctor seems to find something a bit funny in that. "Yes. In the end. We saved the universe at the same time, actually; and rebooted it; got you back a human body; you two got married- all in all, not bad marks. But not before..."

"Before what?"

The Doctor's head is tilted down; he raises just his eyes. They are suddenly colorless in their solemnity.

"Before you waited," he says.

* * *

"You never told me how much you remembered," the Doctor is saying. They have left the cafe behind, and are walking the late morning streets. "Even then, even after- you told Amy you didn't remember it all the time. You told me it was like a door in your mind. I think you were lying. I think you always knew."

Rory's head is buzzing with the information he's just acquired, punctuated by flashes of what can only be memory: a hard stone seat, conversations with thin air, the heat of a fire melting plastic from his legs. It's all a bit much. Instead he distracts himself by wondering what people must think of them walking together: they look too different to be family; they're too far apart in age to be friends or boyfriends. He wonders what they would say if anyone happened to ask.

"And we kept traveling with you after that?" Rory prompts, unsure of what to say, wanting to be talked _to_ instead of _with._

"Oh yes! Me and the Ponds. Next stop, everywhere." The Doctor chuckles. "Oh, there are so many stories I could tell you, Rory. So many things for you to remember. Another time, I think."

"And how- how did I die? You said you'd say."

The Doctor's whole body seems to grow heavier; at once, he is moving like the age he really is. "I don't know how you died," he says at last. "But I know that your body was old; your body was eighty-two. The last time I saw you, your body was only in its thirties."

"What happened? Did you leave?"

"No," the Doctor says thoughtfully, drawing the word out. "You did."

And despite the warning in his eyes to not push the topic further, Rory asks the only question he can think to: "why?"

The Doctor tilts his head back, eyes roaming the sky. "Let's save that one for later, eh?" he says, a bit breathlessly. "Tell you what: go home, eat dinner with your parents and assure them you haven't gone completely mad. I'll be back soon."

"Promise?" Rory requests automatically, because now that he's started this process, he's deeply afraid of it ending.

"I do," the Doctor affirms, "and I never break one of those."

* * *

The Doctor promises to come back. He doesn't promise when, though- and _when_ turns out to be three days later, well past midnight.

Engines swoop and rev. Rory bolts up, only half asleep- he's still a man on edge, and rest does not come easily. The TARDIS fades in- he recognizes it at once- directly in the middle of his floor.

Not ten seconds later, the Doctor is falling out of the doors, lugging an odd piece of machinery behind him.

"What the hell is this?" It's as coherent a question as Rory feels capable of right now.

"Turntable," the Doctor crows, cheeks slightly flushed. "Bit retro... well, 2031, very retro by now."

"I know what it does," Rory says, and it's only a half lie, because he knows that _a part of him_ knows. The _other Rory_ knows. "I'm more wondering why you're dragging it into my room at two in the morning."

"Because I wanted to be secretive about it. I should have thought that was obvious."

Rory sits on his bed with a glare that doesn't quite reach inside of him. He's not sure whether the feeling is his, or the other Rory's, but there's something endearing about this man, the way he's fiddling helplessly with this antiquated technology in the middle of the night, tongue stuck out like he's solving all the problems in the world.

"Hah!" the Doctor shouts finally- then "hah!" a bit more quietly. "And we'll just extend the TARDIS's sound barrier a few feet so your parents won't be woken-" something glides through the air, which Rory's mind names a _sonic screwdriver_- "and, _there_."

"What is that?"

"Dusty Springfield. Never met her, but I've really got to one of these days."

The record has come to life. _Here we are again_, a woman sings. _Off and on again, every year just slips away. We keep meeting here, no one else is near; still, there's always more to say..._

"Her real name is Mary," the Doctor murmurs. He's swaying to the music, eyes far away. "Got the name Dusty from playing in the dirt with the boys. Reminds me a bit of someone we both know..."

"Who?" Rory swallows. "Amy?"

The Doctor nods.

"You've... told me who she is. Well, you've told me she was the one I waited for, at the Pandorica. But you haven't told me _about_ her."

"How much do you remember?"

"Nothing," Rory admits dully, then adds, "not much. She... was my wife, I know."

"I told you that."

"Then I don't remember anything."

"The TARDIS can show you a picture," the Doctor offers, standing still now. "I'm not much of one for cameras, but she's a cheeky girl. She takes snapshots."

Rory nods his assent.

The Doctor reaches behind him to stroke a gentle finger down the TARDIS' door; it's with that same reverence that he regards the hologram that appears between them.

_Sometimes you are in my eyes_, the record sings, _still, we'll go home to them. Until we meet again, how well we've come to know goodbyes..._

It's a woman. She's beautiful, Rory can see that, but feels no recollection of her: not her long red hair, not her round white face. She's wearing a denim skirt. But Rory does not recognize her long, skinny legs, nor the confidence in her pose, nor the hint of mischief in her smile.

_I know, you know: there's no end. Still I'll always tell you, friend, I love you, when the night finds us together, time and time again..._

He doesn't remember the porcelain lines of her collarbone, nor the incongruously childish shoes on her feet. He doesn't remember the clean line of her pink lips. He doesn't remember the crinkle of her hazel eyes.

And then- suddenly- he does.

It's Amy.

Beautiful, fiery, phenomenal, incandescent, amaranthine _Amy._

"Oh," Rory moans. "_Oh_." His entire body comes to life all at once: chest tightens, breath catches, hands clench; tears fill his eyes and bile rises in his throat and arousal stirs between his legs. And his heart _breaks_.

"Amy," he sobs. "Doctor, how could I forget Amy?"

"Tell me about her," the Doctor says, locking eyes with Rory but keeping his distance.

Rory is shaking, his legs, arms, head, all thrumming with energy. "Her name was Amelia. She moved from Scotland when she was just a little girl. She moved to my block," Rory gasps, eyes slipping shut. "I loved her from the moment I saw her! She had red hair. Wore a pendant with an A on it. Oh my god. _Oh my god!_"

"Keep going."

"I waited for her. My whole life. I waited for her to see me. We were friends, but- she didn't know how I felt. I pretended to be in a rock band for her!" Rory laughs, tearfully. "And she thought I was gay. But then, when we were dancing- she kissed me. She chose me! And then-" Rory's eyes open. "She ran away with you. And I thought I'd lost her, but... she took me with her. You both took me with you. And we ran together."

"Don't stop, Rory," the old old man whispers.

"I waited for her. For longer than you can understand, I kept her safe. And when she woke up, we saved the world together- and we got married. We had a daughter. Oh! _Melody_!" Rory's voice cracks wide open. "I remember how Amy used to cry. She used to cry with her head on my chest. She never thought she'd be a decent mum, but she was brilliant. And when the angels- sent us back- and we had a son. She was a writer. We used to eat in the park together. And when I died, oh my god, she was holding my hand!"

Rory's not sure when he fell to his knees, but he's there now. And he needs to scream, needs to cry, needs to vomit, needs to come, needs to _explode_.

But all he does is topple forward, onto all fours, panting.

"And you lied," he growls. "When you said she was shot, in Rome. You never said _I SHOT HER._"

The Doctor hangs back, bobbing like a ghost.

Rory says nothing, but rests his head on the floor and breathes.

* * *

"Why did you make me remember?" Rory spits, when he can finally sit up. Stars spin in and out of the corners of his eyes.

"I thought you wanted to."

"I don't." Everything else is gone and now Rory is only angry- unaccountably, uncontrollably angry. "Take your turntable, get out of my room, and don't. Come. _Back_."

"I don't understand- you called me, Rory, you worked so hard to-"

"_I take it back_!" he hollers, vision blurring the color of blood. "I take that all back. I don't want to travel with you; I don't want to be two thousand years old. I don't want to remember!"

The Doctor looks gutted. The record has not been stopped. On it, the woman is singing another song: _Losing you is just a memory... memories don't mean that much to me..._

"I don't want to remember," Rory repeats, voice petering out. "Why would anyone? Why would anyone choose to hurt like this?"

"Okay," the Doctor whispers. "All right, Rory." He pulls the needle from the record and the silence that follows is thick and painfully tight. "I didn't mean to hurt you, Rory," he adds, not meeting Rory's eyes. "I thought- you wanted to know. I wouldn't have told you otherwise."

"Leave," Rory grinds out; the tension in his body is a new sensation and he knows that if the man doesn't leave soon, there are going to be consequences.

"I'm going." There is a sound of a door opening, but Rory's eyes are closed. "Be happy, Rory," the Doctor murmurs, and then there is a sound of engines, and then-

Nothing.

* * *

Seven years later, Rory Callund's car is hit by a truck that loses control in the rain.

And fifteen years after that (and almost a century earlier), Rory Gauthier dreams of an old, old man.


End file.
